The damn cat wouldn't stop staring at him.

Dino, the gorgeous tuxedo Rocco rescued all those years ago in a back alley, had his bright yellow eyes scorching the old button's face. Poor cat was sick of being the rehearsal dummy, the one Rocco would consistently go over the plan with then proceed to ask an opinion from.

Even if a cat couldn't reply.

Rocco's got the velvet box burning a hole in his coat pocket, and for the first time in years, his hands don't feel steady. Ain't nerves when he's got a gun in his hand or a man's last breath fogging up the air in front of him, there's no shake in sight when he's sawing off limbs, but just lounging here with you, it's a different kind of jitter. The kind that makes his jaw tight and his throat depressingly dry. All these jitters end up making him wonder how a man of so many sins ended up with a precious angel to call his.

It's a big rock too, been around for a while too- just like them. Hell, he bought it four weeks after officially dating you.

For Brooklyn the night is just too quiet. The hum of traffic is far off, Dino is curled up asleep by the radiator, and there's the soft clink of her glass when she sets it down on the coffee table. The apartment smells like garlic from the sauce she made earlier, mixed with the faint smoke still clinging to his coat. She's tucked against him on the couch, wearing one of his button-ups that swallows her frame. He swears she looks more dangerous to his heart like this than any blade he's ever had to dodge.

He'd planned it a hundred ways. Over dinner at that little trattoria she loves. On the walk home when the streetlamps lit her face just right. Even thought about doin' it the second she walked through the door tonight, before the nerves could swallow him whole. But every damn time he even tried his mouth turned to stone. He can put a bullet between a man's eyes without blinkin', but ask the love of his life to marry him? Christ. What the fuck are you doin' here Rock?

She tilts her head up at him now with those soft eyes now questioning. The Northerner knows by now that she feels his restless weight.. To assure her that nothing is totally wrong, he gives her hand a squeeze and slips in a brush of his thumb against her knuckles. His trademark. But fuck, that storm runnin' wild inside his chest doesn't plan on slowing down.

"Sweetheart..." his voice comes low, rough, carrying the kind of weight he usually reserves for men about to meet their maker. When the words he plans to follow up with don't come out he clears his throat. He tries again- softer. "Been thinkin' about somethin'."

The words hover there suspended like cigarette smoke; heavy and dangerous. He can already feel the box digging into his side. He knows he needs to rip off the band aid but with her that's not his style. He's a man who draws out every moment... but maybe, he realizes, this is one of those moments he needs to grab.

His jaw sets, his pulse kicks, and for the first time in years Rocco Battaglia—the ice-cold hitman every italian in the borough (and neighboring ones) fears—feels like he might just come apart at the seams.